


Your thunder is all I hear

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Gore, M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4352858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had always been something about storms, something that unsettled and upset him. It was almost as though he'd always known they'd be his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your thunder is all I hear

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, head the warnings on this fic. Also based on this pic http://40.media.tumblr.com/f883671fcb9935393b1276d3a55d5d86/tumblr_inline_nr5x91aA7a1rj3gdf_500.png by the lovely fapjaks. The same warnings apply to the fic.

The entire city’s lost behind a rippling wet film and it’s any wonder he hasn’t smacked into a wall yet. He’d ditched the zoomer after three blocks and five collisions with other desperate people just wanting to be home. He’d seen each and every face, the despair and hopelessness, all these people wanted was to get by, to provide for their families and live another day in this Precursor forsaken cell of a city.

By the time he’d stumbled down the hideout stairs, he was so angry. At the city, at these people, at himself and Praxis and Samos and Daxter, at the Precursors themselves! He just wanted to give up, to not have to be for a while, to run as far as his legs would take him but he couldn’t. He was just as trapped in this city as he was in that fucking cell, no light, no future.

Daxter liked to joke about him losing control, about going all dark and nasty as though it’s something separate from himself. He wasn’t sure if it was his friend trying to make him feel better, that he wasn’t some monster, or reassuring himself that Jak wasn’t a monster, that whatever Praxis had done to him, Jak was still a good person. He never says anything because while he’d been through Prison, Daxter’d been through Haven’s streets and there isn’t anything Jak wouldn’t do to protect Daxter.

He’d probably never have the heart to correct his friend and tell him just how wrong he was. Because while Praxis may have given him a beast to control, a devil to use, Jak himself is the monster. He wasn’t nice, he wasn’t good.

“Hey kid, where’s the rat?” Torn asked and it was as though he was at the other end of a long, long tunnel. Jak could barely see him and he needed to get to him, he needed to keep him right where he was because this is his fault, he was the spy, he was working for Praxis.

Which was something they needed to discuss but they wouldn’t be able to do that if Torn escaped down that tunnel. He wasn’t going to get away, Jak wasn’t going to let him, not a chance, not down that fucking tunnel.

* * *

There was always something about thunderstorms that put Torn on edge, the growl of thunder and spike of lightning usually had him heading for shelter and barricading himself away. Once he’d joined the guard it had become harder, first as a foot patrol, then a hellcat rider, but he’d worked hard and gained the rank of captain soon enough. Now, as part of the Underground, it was easier than ever to keep out of a storm seeing as he barely spent five minutes outside per week.

Tonight, he was the only one in the hideout. Most other members had already disappeared down their bolt holes to weather out the squall or were braving the elements and taking advantage of the cover. Torn had stoked their pitiful fire as much as he could and had drunk enough brandy to be on the wrong side of tipsy, fully intent on riding out the storm semi-conscious.

When the hideout door slid open for one of their members he almost groaned, he wasn’t in the mood for company, ie sharing his secret stash, but such was life in the Underground. He waited patiently behind his table for the person, getting annoyed when they hung back in the shadow of the hall. Then worry crept in, the person could be hurt, come to the hideout because it was the closest safe house and he started reaching for the med kit.

“Hey kid, where’s the rat?” he asked when the familiar blond pain in the ass finally shuffled in, the equally familiar loud mouth tag along nowhere to be seen. He already had the med kit open on the table, eyes scanning the blond for any blood or bruises but there’s nothing. In fact, the only thing off about the kid, other than the soaked to the bone wetness, was the eyes.

Now Torn has heard the reports, read the stolen info again and again, he knew the kid could turn into some kind of dark eco thing so he knew about the eyes. They turn black, not pitch black or alien black but animal black, the colour of dark eco under a black sky with anger flashing across their depths as opposed to shots of purple or blue. The kid’s eyes weren’t that black right now but they were getting there and that had Torn reaching for his gun.

“He’s probably getting into seven different types of shit without you around,” the red head chattered idly, never taking his own eyes off the blond as he took another step forward. The gun he kept under the table wasn’t anything big, a hand pistol with a high enough calibre to take out normal threats. Torn had never been into heavy duty guns, relying on aim before strength but now he wished he had because he was one hundred percent sure his measly pistol wouldn’t even slow the kid down.

“Or looking for you in this fucking storm,” he continued, keeping the gun below the table and out of sight as the kid approached.

Torn hated storms so he always knew when one was coming, the air started to get tight and there always seemed to be a charge in the air, one that made him want to run or scream until his voice was hoarser than it was. When the storm hit, the charge usually went away but here it was building again in this pathetic hole in the wall they called HQ. Torn wanted to laugh and never stop, the Underground movement hid in the walls like rats! They weren’t getting anywhere, Praxis had them in his back pocket and the metals were weeks, probably days away from breaking through the walls. They were all fucked!

“Why don’t you go look for him?” he suggested, throat tight and voice low as the kid stopped in front of the table, the rotted wood the only thing between him and the creature Praxis had created. He could see those eyes nice and clear now, they’re so much more terrifying in person, a black Torn never could’ve been prepared for. But the reports were right about one thing, it wasn’t purple or blue dancing in those depths, it was anger and pain and lust and hunger and all the other animal impulses that they hid away with this contrary human duet.

The kid was lightning quick, so fast that Torn didn’t even have the time to fire off an unaimed shot before he was slammed against the wall with a forearm across his throat. All the air went out of him in a sharp wheeze and he tried, _fucking Precursors did he try_ , to bring his gun back up but one clawed hand grabbed his wrist and **_squeezed_**.

He’d been through KG training, they tried to prepare you for shit like this, for enemies that try to take your weapon from you by squeezing your wrist until you opened your hand. This was telling that training to go get fucked, because Jak wasn’t a sane, logical enemy that needed him hale and hearty. The sickening snap reached him before the pain but the red hot agony wasn’t far behind, the gun clattered to the ground from his lax fingers.

The kid was panting in his face, predator sharp teeth barred in his face but he still tried, either he tried or he died, though Torn had the sick feeling that he was dead no matter what he did. The angle was wrong but he cocked back his working fist and tried his fucking best to punch the kid in the ribs. On anyone else, that move would at least make them wince, or best case scenario drop him, but here all he got was a soul shattering snarl.

There was an arm across his throat, crushing his windpipe, and wicked claws curling around his neck. There was another clawed hand resting on his hip, the fingers digging into his skin so hard Torn was afraid they’d just break the bone and be done with it. He was hyper aware of the each point of contact, his throat, his hip, the entire length of both his legs, and the cold that was seeping into his bones.

“Just fucking do it,” he spat, glaring at the black, black eyes and kicking as hard as he could, not that that got far seeing as the kid had him pinned but it was better than nothing. Again, the sound of skin tearing, being sliced open, reached his ears before the pain and all he could think about was the last time his throat had been slit. He hadn’t screamed then either, and at least this time it was to the back of his neck, curving down to the side.

The spurt of hot blood was a jarring contrast to his frozen bones though it didn’t last long, he didn’t even get the chance to bask in his own blood before the kid was lapping it all up. His tongue rough, harsh and scraping at the already ruined flesh, and so, so cold. Torn was hurting so much already that somehow the signals got fucked and he started to laugh. The kid cocked his head like any other animal and brought his arm away, still locked on the man he had up against the wall. Torn knew better though, this was just a predator toying with its prey before going in for the kill, giving it the chance to run then keeping it right there.

“F-fucker!” he wheezed, the smile splitting his face hurt and his throat hurt and his arm throbbed and he was so cold. He was staring his death in the face and laughing at it, let it never be said Torn Rhett went out like a pussy.

And he couldn’t be sure that the kid wasn’t just mimicking him or whether he was just a sick fuck, but a smirk so familiar it hurt played across those pointed teeth. One side of the mouth jerked up and Torn got a perfect look at his own blood smeared on pale lips and teeth. He wanted to throw up but just laughed some more, laughed and laughed even harder when claws pricked at him again.

Somehow he was being held against the table, dropped on it like a sack of flour, and held down. The ripping of cloth accompanied his hysterical laughter for a while and he hissed when claws nicked his ribs, gouging into his already scarred and marked flesh. More blood streaked down his side, so hot, almost burning, but he was too far gone to appreciate it this time.

Then everything started to fuzz out, the ceiling was blurry, and the bunks were greenish brown blobs but he could still see the kid just fine. Snarling down at him in a parody of his smirks, black eyes boring into his with hunger and hatred, and Torn never knew anyone more impatient than the kid. There was a hand on his ass, lifting him off the table at an angle that put all the pressure on his neck and he rasped out a chuckle.

Of course, it only made sense that the kid fuck him to death, that he shove his cock into the ex-KG and exorcise all his demons. Torn stood for everything the kid hated, Praxis, the city, the guard, the false hope of the Underground movement itself, it only made sense.

There was no lube, he didn’t expect any, and no prep, the kid just shoved and shoved until he got in, fucking into him like any other mindless animal in heat. Torn grunted along with him for the first few thrusts, the hollow, aching burn enough to drag him away from the fuzziness with its sharp, distinct pain but not for long.

But that faded after a while and everything started to lose its clarity again. He could feel himself slipping this time, feel each sense as it went, from the cold burn of each hurt to the growls and snarls above him. Everything just faded out, just as though he was standing in the middle of the world’s largest thunderstorm. The water falling made it so he couldn’t hear anything else, nothing but the boom, boom, boom, of the thunder.


End file.
